The Nightingale

As Siddharth stood there, taking in the serene beauty of the private beach, he couldn't help but remember the wise words of his father. “Looks make the talk even before you open your mouth. So always look presentable”, it was a golden advice of his dad. He ran his hand over his neatly trimmed hair and straightened his shirt, making sure he looked his best. He knew that first impressions were important and he always made sure to put his best foot forward. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was like music to his ears and he felt at peace. It was moments like this that made all the hard work and effort worth it. Siddharth took a deep breath, feeling grateful for this moment of solitude.

 

Suddenly, a fragrant aroma wafted past Siddharth, reminding him of someone he once knew. He spun around to see a figure walking away, with long, wavy hair that swayed in the gentle breeze. The scent of her perfume was unmistakable. "Rhea?" he called out, as recognition dawned on him. He rushed towards her, but as he reached out to touch her shoulder, she crumpled to the ground. Siddharth lifted her up, cradling her lifeless body in his arms. Her face was as pale as the moonlight that bathed them, her heart no longer beating, her breaths no longer coming. "No! No, no, no, no," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "Don't leave me, Rhea." In that moment, the beauty of the night was forgotten, replaced by a tragedy that felt like a knife to the heart.

 

“Sir! Sir!”, he heard a faint voice from distant. He was puzzled as there were nobody else in the beach. It was only him and Rhea in his arms. He looked at the direction of the voice but there were nobody. The voice grew louder and his arms started to feel lighter. When he looked down, Rhea was not in his arms anymore. She vanished away. It all felt weird to him. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the voice.

 

"Sir, wake up!" The voice grew more urgent, shaking Siddharth out of his slumber. He groggily opened his eyes to find his butler looking down at him with concern. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of his strange dream. "Your father is waiting for you downstairs, sir," the butler reminded him. Siddharth checked his watch and groaned, realizing he'd only slept for a few short hours after the parliament riots. "Why does he want to see me so early?" he wondered, feeling a twinge of anxiety in his chest. "I must have done something wrong." The butler handed him a glass of water and said, "I've prepared a bath for you, sir. You can freshen up and then meet with your father." Siddharth took a sip of the water, noticing the half-empty bottle of 30-year-old Suntory Hibiki whiskey on the bedside table. He sighed, thinking about the strange dream he just had.

Siddharth stood before the bathroom mirror, staring into the eyes of a man who seemed almost unfamiliar. They used to sparkle with ambition and dreams, but now they were dull, lacking any semblance of hope or joy. Grief and despair had turned him into a shell of the person he once was. He reached for his diary, which lay beside a nearly empty bottle of his favourite Japanese whiskey. He scrawled down, "26th July 2022, 7:20 a.m. I feel dead inside. Even dreams taunt me with ghosts from the past."

As he put the diary back, he caught a glimpse of his face again in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, he tried to invoke the spirit that once filled him with life. "I'm Batman," he muttered to his reflection, his voice drained of the enthusiasm he once had for the whimsical parts of life. The smirk that accompanied the statement was sardonic, a mere caricature of genuine happiness.

"Tragedies are a part of life, Athena, but drowning in them and relying solely on alcohol is not the answer," Siddharth's father was fuming downstairs, his voice filled with frustration. "Look at him, he's lost, with no purpose in life." "Just give him time, my love," Athena tried to soothe, "he'll find his way eventually." "Eventually?" Siddharth's father scoffed. "Your son is spiraling into a life of self-destruction. Just three weeks ago, he went to Japan, to the Yamazaki distillery, and bought two crates of whiskey, just two crates! He was arrested at the airport for trying to smuggle alcohol out of the country. If it weren't for the influence of Dashanan and the prestige of the Wendigo name, he would be rotting in a Japanese prison right now.". Siddharth was the sole heir of Riz Wendigo, the opposite party leader and Dashanan’s best friend.

 

 

"Sir, the young master is getting dressed and will be down soon," the butler reported to Riz and Athena. Athena was heartbroken, watching her once bright and cheerful son turn into a shadow of himself. Her once beloved sunshine now only rose at night. She wondered if there was any way to bring him back to the light. The thought of her son being alone and struggling without them, tore at her heart. Riz, on the other hand, was equally devastated. The loss of his best friend and the disappointment in his son was a heavy burden for him to bear. No matter the wealth and power they had, it seemed that the family was still in shambles. He couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness and frustration, knowing that he couldn't fix what was broken.

Sid steeled himself for the encounter ahead, pulled on a pair of sunglasses to shield his weary eyes from the piercing daylight, and headed downstairs. His father, Riz, glanced up as he entered the room and grimaced. "Look at this clown! Wearing sunglasses at home. What's the matter with you, Sid?" The harsh words ricocheted off Siddharth's emotional armor; years of hearing them had numbed their sting.

"You wanted to meet me, dad," Siddharth reminded, steering the conversation toward its purpose.

"Fine," Riz snapped. "Given the chaos surrounding Dashanan's funeral and the uncertainty of the political atmosphere, it's crucial that Logan is present at the crematorium for the rites. The problem is, he's 20 kilometers away and the city is a mess. You'll have to take the old roads on a bike. Can you manage that?"

For a moment, Siddharth hesitated, already weighed down by a life he found increasingly pointless. Now, here was another responsibility, another demand. But it was for Dashanan, a man who'd been like an uncle to him, a man his father respected. "Alright. I’ll use my bike," he responded flatly.

"Good. Wear this," his dad said, handing him a helmet, which Siddharth took without a word.

As he approached his Enfield Bullet, memories of Rhea flooded back. Their last ride together seemed like a lifetime ago, in a different world where he was a different person. With a deep sigh, he straddled the bike and kickstarted the engine. It roared to life, a jarring contrast to the emptiness he felt inside.

"I’m Batman," he whispered to himself, the words tinged with irony this time as he revved the bike's engine. There was no hero inside him waiting to break free, no hidden strength that would magically make things better. But he had a task to accomplish, a small flicker of purpose in an otherwise dark existence. With that thought, he pulled away from the only home he'd known, the weight of his failures and losses riding with him, but so too the faintest glimmer of responsibility and, perhaps, a smidgen of redemption.